


Anthropogenic Global Warming

by old_blue



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_blue/pseuds/old_blue
Summary: House and Foreman do a little breaking and entering, total PWP





	Anthropogenic Global Warming

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally tracked down this old fic from 2008. Here are my original author's notes:
> 
> My cat wrote some of this. *This is true--I remember my cat walking across the keyboard while I was in the middle of this and wrecking everything* I had to edit those parts pretty heavily. Seriously, though, I don't write very much, so I'm pretty nervous about posting this. Any and all feedback and criticism is welcome.

The second they step from the cool, filtered air of PPTH and out into the hot oven blast of a Jersey afternoon in summer, Foreman regrets letting House bully him into this.

For a few seconds, his clothes act as insulation -- the hot air buffets his face, but can't quite penetrate to the core of him. If he's lucky, he'll make it to the car and the air conditioning before the heat catches up. Then House says something offensive about black people who own BMWs, and Foreman can feel all that coolness slipping away. A single drip of sweat runs down the center of his back.

Once inside the car, he slaps House's hands away from the dashboard, sets the AC on max, and aims all the vents at himself. Sits as still as he can until the air is coming out ice cold and dry. Better. He reaches into his pocket, takes out the map to their patient's apartment he'd printed out. "Why didn't you get Kutner to come along. He practically lives for this shit."

"Hmm... Didn't feel like Indian today." House seems totally untroubled by the heat -- he just closes his eyes and leans back into his seat -- and that pisses Foreman off even more.

 

***

 

Their patient's apartment is in one of those formerly grand old homes lining the streets around what used to be the center of town. Like so many others, it's been carved up to make spaces for college students and single, aging hippies, left in disrepair, lead paint peeling off the sides. Luckily, they only have to make it up to the second floor of four-floor wreck.

By the time House has hauled himself up the battered staircase, Foreman's gotten the lock open. He glances around to make sure no one's about to witness a black guy and a cripple breaking into their neighbor's apartment. The stuffy landing is totally empty. He opens the door and they slip inside.

The small apartment is a sixties' nightmare of kitsch and beads and paisley and old, mismatched furniture. Every square inch is packed with junk. And there's no air conditioning -- it's hot as hell in here.

"Excellent," House says. He's grinning at the mess. Foreman wants to punch him.

There are boxes of books stacked floor to ceiling, more books packed into shelves, and even more books free-ranging on the floor and coffee tables.

House grabs one off the top of a stack and reads, "'Global Warming: Causes, Effects, and the Future'." Makes a silly face. "Wow. This guy sure cares about the environment." He looks around. "Too bad we had to destroy the rainforest so he could read about it."

Foreman rolls his eyes. The heat in here is making him sweat again and he can practically feel the patchouli stink of this place seeping into his clothes. He's going to need a shower when this is over. "You want the kitchen or the bathroom?" he asks wearily.

House looks like he's in no hurry to get moving -- he's casually lifting books, poking through the drawers on the entertainment center. He holds up a little glass jar, shakes it, and squints at the contents. "Whatever." His mind is a million miles away.

Foreman sighs. If he ever wants to get out of here, he's going to have to do everything himself. "Fine. _I'll_ take the bathroom. You do the kitchen and the bedroom."

He turns down the hall to the tiny bathroom, bats aside a low-hanging string of Christmas lights on his way in. It's not filthy, but almost every surface is coated with a mix of dust and hair that accumulates naturally in a slob's bathroom.

Foreman runs one gloved finger along the top of the toilet tank, grimaces at the dirt. He can't help remembering what happened before -- the pain and fear -- and now they've got another patient with unexplained neurological problems and a dirty apartment. He can't help but draw parallels.

"Don't you want gloves?" he calls. There's no answer of course -- he doesn't really expect one.

Foreman considers the patient's symptoms, decides it's most likely an infection. Still, he's not ready to rule out toxins. Who knows what the guy's been smoking? Gloves are probably enough protection. He's tempted to put on a mask, too, but he can't quite swallow his pride enough to wear it in front of House. It's a pathetic excuse and Foreman hates himself a little for allowing House to get to him. Still, it's so fucking hot in here -- he'd probably pass out if he put on a mask.

House's voice at his back startles him. "Chill out, man. I already know what he's got." House lifts the lid of a wicker hamper with his cane, peers inside, shudders. "And it has nothing to do with illicit drugs or any other... _substances_ we might encounter here."

Foreman's a little skeptical. "Yeah? What's he got?"

House opens the medicine cabinet and takes out a bottle, scrutinizes the label, frowns, puts it back. Foreman raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

House finally looks up. "Not telling," he sing-songs, and stalks off into the bedroom.

Foreman stares after him for a moment. It's still early in the DDX. The patient's symptoms -- liver failure, fever, headache, joint pain, thrombocytopenia, confusion, and paranoia -- are as vague and varied as they get. He's going to bet that whatever House thinks it is at this point, he's wrong. And they're here now, so he might as well collect everything they'll need later, when House is on his seventh or eighth wrong diagnosis.

He wants to get a sample from under the sink, but the thought of moving at all makes him itch. Foreman takes his jacket off, which doesn't do much to cool him down, and hangs it on the doorknob. He stares suspiciously at the floor for a moment, grabs a towel off the rack, and spreads it on the tiles in front of the vanity.

He has to contort himself inside the tiny vanity cupboard to get the swab up under the pipes, while simultaneously not touching anything. He bangs his head on the edge of the sink as he's climbing back out. " _Damn it_ ," he mutters. That fucking hurt. He resists the urge to rub at his head because of the gloves.

Damn House, too. "If you already know everything, then why the hell did you drag both our asses out here?" he calls.

"Oh, you know. Free drugs, free love, all that good stuff." House sounds like he's in the kitchen. Foreman hopes he's gathering samples, but he somehow doubts it.

Now he just needs to swab the toilet. "Seriously, House. What do you think it is?"

"It's a secret."

Foreman shakes his head. He's on his knees in some aging hippy's bathroom, reaching around one of the oldest toilets he's ever seen, trying to get a swab of some of the nasty shit growing on the back of it. He's got sweat dripping into his eyes. And House is being his usual, asshole self. He's seriously not in the mood for mind games. He gets the sample and stands back up, wincing at the wet patches under his armpits, the way his expensive dress shirt sticks to his back.

Foreman puts the samples away in his bag. He follows the sound of House's cane thumping around on the hardwood floor down the hallway and to the patient's bedroom. There's a tapestry tacked over the doorway. No door, though. Foreman snorts and pushes aside the curtain.

House has a plastic bag filled with what looks like weed in one hand and he's busy pawing through the top drawer in an old bureau with the other. He looks up when Foreman steps in, holds up the bag. "Got a lighter?"

"No." Foreman frowns. "Did you do the kitchen already? I thought I heard--"

"No point," House cuts him off. "Already got my diagnosis." He pauses, eyes lighting up. "Eureka!" He pulls out a wadded-up sock, unfolds it to reveal a glass pipe. A huge grin spreads across his face. Foreman thinks about calling the police and turning them in. It'd be worth it just to see the look on House's face.

"What's the diagnosis?" Foreman's tired of this. "And don't smoke that shit," he adds.

House has moved over the bed. He starts packing the bowl carefully, much to Foreman's chagrin. He stares down at his hands while he works. "We've got a dirty, tree-hugging hippie, who's hiked the Adirondack Trail five times and who rode his bike into a tree ten years ago, leading to the removal of his spleen, presenting with muscle aches, fever, rash, low platelet count, and elevated liver enzymes." House looks up at him. He shrugs. "It's ehrlichiosis. Any first-year medical student could tell you that."

Foreman just stares at him. He hates to admit it, but the tick-borne illness fits, especially in a patient who's already got a compromised immune system. Could be a different pathogen, though -- Foreman's not ready to concede. Still, this whole trip doesn't make any sense. "Then why the hell are we here? If you don't think--"

House pulls a lighter out of his pocket. "Dude like this," he gestures at the room, "I knew he had to keep the good stuff around."

Foreman's always surprised to find that House still has the ability to render him speechless. It takes him a few seconds to find his voice. "You made me drive you out here," he pauses to consider his boss's newest and possibly lowest low, "so you could raid a patient's drug stash?"

Foreman doesn't even need to make it a question really, because it's suddenly totally obvious that's exactly what House has been up to all along. The asshole in question lights up his pipe, sucks a big breath of aromatic smoke into his lungs, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out with a whoosh.

He stares down at the pipe warily for a moment. "Yep." He coughs, nodding. "That's the good shit." His eyes are already glazing over.

Foreman shakes his head. He takes a calming breath -- which is getting more difficult with the miasma of patchouli and weed fumes filling the room -- counts to ten, stares at a poster on the wall that says 'Save the Whales', thinks about a deep, calm sea -- anything to relax. He's found that letting House's antics get to him is like punching himself in the face.

House takes another hit, then offers him the pipe. "Want some?"

"No." He hasn't touched that shit since he was nineteen, and he's certainly not going to let House drag him back down to that level. "I'm going to go swab the kitchen," he says calmly, coolly. "Then we're leaving, and I'm taking you home."

Foreman turns around and heads out into the hallway.

"Killjoy," House coughs.

 

***

 

It takes him about ten minutes to get all the samples he wants. The kitchen's actually remarkably clean, but there are several canisters of unmarked food items that look suspicious, and it takes him a while to get to all of them. The guy has more vegan cookbooks than Foreman's ever seen in one place, yet his fridge is packed with old deli meat, hotdogs, and cheese.

He puts everything away carefully and tidies up, grabs his coat from the bathroom. Makes sure everything's as neat as it was when they broke in. Time to collect House and get the fuck out of here.

 

***

 

He finds the man in pretty much the exact same spot he'd left him, sitting on the bed. Fortunately, House appears to be done smoking out. He's just staring at the wall now.

Foreman resists the urge to wave his hand in front of his face to clear the smoke. God damn, it's hot in here. "You put our patient's stash back?"

House thinks for a moment, nods. "Yep." Keeps nodding.

"Then let's go."

House doesn't move.

"House."

"What?"

"I said it's time to go."

"Fine." Blank stare.

 _Fuck_ , Foreman thinks. He really doesn't want to have to drag House out of here -- the idea of carrying his crippled ass down the stairs is not appealing. He considers just leaving him, but Cuddy would probably throw a fit.

He swings the pack around onto his back, reaches down, and grabs House's arms. "Come on, House." He pulls, but nothing happens.

House looks at him quizzically.

"Come on." He tries to drag House up, but he's heavy and hot against him -- it's like trying to lift a scarecrow filled with beach sand. He's managed to get House most of the way up, when he slips out of Foreman's sweat-slick grip and stumbles to his knees in front of him.

 _What the hell?_ There's no way his coordination should be this affected after smoking a little weed. Maybe it was mixed with something. He's reaching down to drag the other man back onto his feet, check his pulse, pupils, when House turns his head and rubs his mouth deliberately across Foreman's crotch.

Time slows down.

" _House_ \--" Foreman warns, but he doesn't immediately pull away. The pressure feels good, the heat of House's breath through the fabric. He can see little beads of sweat forming on the other man's forehead, dampening his hair. Somehow, that makes Foreman feel better. His breath catches when House bites at him gently, and he's hard almost instantly, pushing against House's mouth. "Is this the 'free love' part you were talking about earlier?" he manages to gasp out. This is so, so wrong.

House looks up at him. His eyes are totally bloodshot -- _red, white, and blue, star-spangled_ \-- and he doesn't say anything, just smiles that stupid, lazy smile, like he knows everything Foreman's thinking.

House is fine -- he's just utterly and completely stoned out of his mind.

"You bastard," Foreman says, mildly. Why the fuck not, he thinks. He's pissed off enough that he's perfectly willing to let House stay down there on his knees, let the man humiliate himself. He's tired of these games. "If you want to suck my cock, House, then just fucking do it."

House gives him a long, speculative look, and Foreman's absolutely sure he won't go through with it -- he'll reveal it's all a ruse, produce a hidden camera, or a recording device used to capture Foreman's incriminating statements, play them later for the new fellows. But then he's slipping Foreman's belt out of the buckle, drawing down his zipper, and his hands are reaching in and pulling out Foreman's cock.

House licks at the head before blowing air across it. Foreman gasps at the sensation -- hot, then cold, then hot again as House slips him all the way into his mouth, wraps his hand around the base.

 _Fuck_ , it feels good -- the man has talent. Foreman desperately wants to grab House's hair, maybe force him a little -- the thought of choking House with his dick sends a nasty shiver of pleasure through him -- but he's not going to let House drag him down to that level, not going to let House turn him into that kind of asshole.

His hands have to go somewhere, so he settles for grabbing House's shoulders instead, feeling the bones shift under his hands, digging his thumb hard into the vulnerable spot under his collarbone.

House groans around him, and Foreman mutters, "Yeah, that's it." Stupid words that mean nothing.

He needs to look down, make this real, because he's absolutely sure this will never happen again.

House has his eyes closed. His hair is dark with sweat and plastered to his head. He looks almost serene, Foreman thinks. The sight of his cock disappearing into House's wet mouth is nearly too much for him to handle. Foreman shuts his eyes. Maybe it's sick, but he wants this to last.

Time passes, speeds up again until he's on the verge of coming. Foreman runs his hands over House's face, grabs at the back of his neck to slow him down. House is so hot, and his skin is slick with sweat, and it feels so fucking good.

He can't help gasping out, " _Oh fuck!_ " Just manages to avoid saying House's name. And then he's coming. He doesn't even feel bad about making House swallow because -- _God damn it_ \-- he owes him that much.

It takes a few seconds for the room to fade back in, for his heartbeat to recede like an outgoing tide. Foreman realizes he's holding on to House's shoulders for support, probably hard enough to leave bruises. He looks down at him. House still has that same smug grin on his face, but right now Foreman finds it almost endearing. He's sure that won't last.

When he can finally breathe again, he says, "Where'd you put that weed?"


End file.
